Poetry

Shark Attack

IS Life imitating Art ? – what’s going on with the murderous shark?
Sharm El Sheik’s become deserted, Beaches empty, no tourist sighted
All clear, all clear was the shout, as the local fisherman held a shark by its snout
OK everyone gather, it’s now safe, to go back in the water.
 

Screams of delight soon became screams of panic
As the wily slippy shark was back on his picnic
Off came a leg and then an arm departed
This shark’s fun had just restarted,
 

Put the red flags up again and clear the beaches
We need the assistance from experts, teach us
 

Out went the call to Schneider, Shaw, and Dreyfus et al.
But alas those not dead couldn’t make it to the Sea Red.
Their best shark-catching days beyond them,
And a hungry shark still abundant
 

Call for the Mossad; they will sort it 
After all aren’t they the ones who dumped the fish feed for it,
We can’t do that, cry the Egyptians; we will not support this mission.
We can’t trust the Israelis, they're no good at fishin'.
 

Ok, so what is the answer, to put an end to this marauding monster?
It’s simple as the nose on your face, or the fin on its back
Just leave the area one and all, and don’t come back 
And let the shark take the glory, this his time to tell his story
The last time Spielberg won, now the shark’s having the fun
And any way it’s all to no avail, ‘cause he will probably be eaten,
 

By a rogue whale

Penned by a Fisherman's Friend. Those lozenges are HOT!

Open sesame

I forgot my Visa password, and I really have to thank
The nice lady (who’s in Bangalore) I spoke to at the bank

She took me through security, although we’ve never met,
And in a trice my missing code was finally reset

But this last straw set me thinking, could there be a better way
Of managing PINs and passcodes? I forget one every day…

My credit cards have Chip and Pin; of those I have a brace
And for two matching debit cards my wallet has a space,

My internet accounts have codes (of those I manage five)
My stockbroker needs yet one more to keep my access live.

There’s also some for Amazon and PayPal and Ebay –
In entering the dratted things I pass my life away…

For one or two of these a passcode isn’t quite enough;
I have to give my favourite book, or other some such stuff ;

An animal; my second cousin’s mother’s maiden name,
And when you try to log in the requests are not the same.

A place I like? Some famous guy? The colour of my eyes?
To remember all this at my age is worthy of a prize

My NHS computer needs a code to let me in,
My voicemail inbox on the Net requests another PIN;

To login to the X-ray system needs a further code
Pathology has still one more – and adding to the load

My email servers (there are two) both know my username
But insist that no two passcodes used should ever be the same…

Then what about my laptop? One bad day I nearly died;
The password had escaped me, and it said “Access denied”

And made me wait two minutes till it let me try again,
Then when that failed, first five, then ten, ‘twas getting quite a pain

The wait was exponential, and up I got quite het
And took it down the corridor for IT to reset.

It’s bad enough to have codes for each access and each item
And on a secret memo it is possible to write ‘em

But some require six characters, some eight and for the cash
Some need an upper case (or two), or ampersand, or hash

And some will not allow you back to pre-computer slumber
Unless the jolly code contains a question mark and number.

So now I am quite organised, all codes I can remember
But that will cease to be the case when we get to December

For another cunning detail that is in the small print hidden
Is that every now and then you’ll find that you are cruelly bidden

“For your protection” (so they say), but just an extra load –
“Your password has expired now; please next choose a different code”!

Living From Hand To Mouth

By airtube, a receptionist from here got faeces, badly packed, I fear.
She opened the bag with the pot and only then noticed, but what? T’was covered in wet diarrhoea.

Now gloves should be worn, it’s the norm but the stool on her hand was still warm.
So she got on the phone to have a good moan at the sender, and filled in the form.

A week later she started to do enormous great quantities of poo.
The doc took a history to solve the great mystery and really he hadn’t a clue.

He took all the relevant tests and sent them by airtube - you guessed.
- biochem, histology, - haem and cytology, but micro, though slow, was the best.

Maybe some old mozzarella gave her giardia or a shigella,
colitis or Crohn’s, C. diff. even stones but later, there grew salmonella.

Quite soon there were several more cases with outbreaks in different places.
Special gel gave some hope, and water with soap. But compliance - it held all the aces.

Infection Control tried us to save. To each patient a side room they gave.
Public Health called it a case of a national disgrace, and the situation soon became grave.

Ideas of cross-infection were sound. To the Ref. Lab. the samples were bound.
The tests from the two (the pod and some poo) - identical phage-types were found.

The receptionist remembered the pod and she told the doctor, thank god.
She knew what to do – she decided to sue the sender of the faeces, the sod.

As Flames Fashioned From Fire

Unwelcomed into birth,
I still wandered with might,
As flames fashioned from fire
Forms Fate from Fear and Fright.

Good Will, Good Cheer, my Lance, my Spear,
And blind Faith still to mold my tear,
I set forth to find my worth that lies not here,

Unwelcomed into my right,
I know not whence I came,
Nor the smile that cradles my vein,
But I walk forth, for I know my aim is right,
With the sun, the stars and the sky above me
To guide my strength and ambition alike
And my conscience to teach me wrong from right

Unwelcomed into life
To set these wrongs to right
Against what comes my way,
To test the strength of my might,
The taste of blood and what hate conceived
Drives my Will to further my soul to highest of heights
I stand guard of unwelcomed souls,
Who were left to trot on earth like me

Like Silence cloaked by a Wintery night,
My smiles can hide sorrow and grief alike,
‘Tis the scent to the beauty of a flower

Afghan Harvest

Young soldiers are dying in Afghanistan
In bitter fighting with the Taliban,
From bullets fired through the blinding dust,
Or explosives buried in the roadside crust.

Rivulets of blood congeal in the heat
And conspire to conceal half-missing feet,
And scorching salt-sweat-blinded eyes
Collude in this sickening desert disguise.

Scream above the thudding cacophony
And the rattling shattering small-arms polyphony
To summon the medic’s magic kiss:
Oblivion from morphine’s i/v bliss.

Don’t tell me supplies are running low
In fields where Opium Poppies grow?
Ask the Afghan farmers, when they’re near,
If their poppies will grow in Oxfordshire.